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Happy enging New York, New York

IT HAPPENED TO ME: I'm a Woman And I Got A Happy Ending Massage. After all, I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I would only be in New York for a few months.
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As I worked through what happened that weekend, one essential detail kept coming screaming into my head: I was in a hotel room. She does not ask me to disrobe, happy enging New York. The engine we got from you runs great. Sex work allowed a lot of free time to study as I sat around all heeled and red-lipped, waiting for customers. Just dudes on their lunch-breaks or after work or in the middle of the night who wanted a pretty girl to give them her undivided attention.

Happy enging New York, New York

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I would be like the Amazonian badasses charging over subway grates - in heels! How brave of me! I would only be in New York for a few months. Soon I was eyeing the muscular personal trainers at my gym like they were pieces of cheesecake that I wanted to have sex with. After a particularly hormonal workout on the inner thigh machine, I knew that I had to do something.

Did they see women sitting on this bench all the time? Did they know that they have a neighbor whose resume entails inducing the female orgasm? I would have felt less self-conscious in a sketchy alleyway. A Grandpa eating a tuna sandwich gave me some serious side eye. I smiled as he sat down next to me, shook my hand and asked me questions about my job. After walking quickly past the doorman and more side eye we got on the elevator with two middle-aged women.

Of course, they probably saw him with different women all the time. Did they know what his job was? For all I knew, he could have been arm deep in their lady bits earlier that day.

Within minutes I was inside of his apartment. The vibrator stuck out in the room like, well, a giant vibrator. Why would I pay to get a tantric massage, only to end up having this guy press a vibrator up against me? Could some women not reach orgasm, even with a man called Doctor M?

I assumed the M stood for masturbation, or manly. I assured myself that I would not be one of those no-orgasm women. I shelled out cold, hard cash for this, so damn it, I was gonna get there. And as we all know, the best way to reach orgasm is to put a lot of pressure on yourself. Sure, I was about to get naked, in a random apartment, in front of a stranger who could have been happy enging New York Dad.

I was confident that I could tune everything out and get to my happy place. He assured me that everything was consensual, and that he could usually tell from body language when the woman was ready for the tantric section to begin. How many of his clients had he ended up sleeping with? After undressing and wrapping myself in a towel in his bathroom, New York, I re-entered the massage room, giggling aloud at how awkward I felt.

Soon, I forgot about everything else and was in backrub-induced bliss. I started to laugh. Was he seriously not paying for a premium account? My laughter quickly faded and turned into heavy breathing.

This guy was a master of temptation. He would get oh so close, closer. The combination of backrub, warm oil, and Enya had my southern hemisphere ready to go. Now I could see what he meant when he said that women showed they were ready from their body language. My legs spread apart almost involuntarily as I waited for him to start the sexy part. Honestly, the temptation was fantastic. Finally, he got to manipulating my vajay, and after that it was all back arching bliss.

To my embarrassment, he reached for his bookshelf and whipped out the Magic Wand. On the subway ride home, I was getting checked out a lot more than usual.

My only piece New York advice? Skip the mascara on the day of your massage. Right before I returned to my apartment, I stopped to check myself out in an extra reflective window, expecting some kind of goddess-like glow. Only then did I discover the real reason people were staring at me. The preamble to this tale of misspent youth is that prostitution is legal where I am from. I guess what you are wondering is how a nice girl from a nice little town falls into that kind of life?

Really though, I was not a nice girl. I can tell you that a lot of happy enging New York who work in the sex industry are perfectly normal, happy and well-adjusted types who use the work to bolster their financial situation, or assist in their education.

I know, I met many women like this and a lot of them are very successful, make a lot of money and improve their lot in life. I was one of the fuck-ups. I used sex work to pay the bills when I was otherwise unemployable.

I left home and moved to the city. I found work as an office temp and moved into a house with some other bohemians and everything was going well… until I had what I guess amounts to a breakdown, spurred on by relationship problems and drug problems. My unreliability, New York, bouts of tears and half-hearted suicide attempts got me fired from my office job, which was something of a relief - pretending that I was normal for eight hours a day became too much to bear.

I spent a few weeks floating around completely broke, having idle thoughts about maybe trying to be a stripper, but my social awkwardness made all that publicity seem kind of daunting. Then, one day I saw an ad in the adult services section if the paper.

Good money, No sex. If no sex, then what? I called and arranged an interview. The address revealed itself to be a nondescript door on a busy main street that opened to reveal a dimly lit staircase. Ah, the soft-lit staircase, hallmark of the rub-and-tug parlour. I would go on New York blindly fumble up many of these in the next few years. The interview was pretty simple.

A gorgeous, well-dressed older woman told me about rates and hours and showed me around the rooms all dim and well appointed with a large massage table in the center - a massage table with TWO HOLES, New York. Then, a hand job. Oh, OK, no sex but hand jobs. I was young and fresh and soft-skinned and my crazy was well-cloaked under my glossy hair and pretty, crooked smile. Not that it would have mattered anyway. My first shift was the next night and I showed up with some hastily bought make-up and lingerie.

At the shift changeover the place was crowded with girls in varying stages of undress, all gossiping and kissing and laughing. Being a high-school outcast, I have always found large groups of beautiful girls to be very intimidating. With those girls, I grew to say goodbye to my boundaries, one by one. When you are in a place like that, the physicality is so raw that it is nothing to hold hands, cuddle and spoon the other girls as you chat about dicks and cash and clothes.

You would think that I would have crystal clear memories of my first client. I remember that the booking was with another girl so I could get an idea of what to doan older, brash and hilarious New Zealander with a ridiculously happy enging New York accent and amazing tits. I remember everything about her, she was gold.

He was just Some Guy. The majority of the clients were just Some Guy to me. New York too grabby or rough. Just dudes on their lunch-breaks or after work or in the middle of the night who wanted a pretty girl to give them her undivided attention. They had money and I was that girl. I ended up being that girl for another three years. Not all the clients were Some Guy, though.

Some were memorable, in good and bad ways. Aggressive men who called me a whore to my face and seemed to hate me despite the fact that they were paying me to be there. The worst customer I ever had happy enging New York so rough with me that I had to ask him to leave. I got roughed up for free that day. The juxtaposition of his withered limbs against my plump, smooth body was fascinating for the both of us. There was the obese man who barely fit on the table - I would climb his rotund form like a mountain.

Whenever he came back he always asked for me, loving that I took such pleasure in conquering his expanses of flesh. And there was guy with the burns, or the man who just wanted to sit in the spa and hug and talk books or the Scandinavian couple and that one time when… Too many to recall. Too many to list here.

When it sucked, it really sucked - but on good days I fed on the joy I gave out. I rolled, full-bodied in the pureness of the sexuality that poured from me.

I had an endless well of it to share, and why not? My exit from the sex industry was without fanfare, catharsis or tales of redemption. So I just stopped asking for shifts and got a job as a waitress.

The money was hard to give up, no more flush days coming home with eight or so hundred bucks in my back pocket to be blown. Sex work allowed a lot of free time to study as I sat around all heeled and red-lipped, happy enging New York, waiting for customers. It was hard to be pretend to be normal in my new job, especially as I had so recently emerged from my murky, daylight-less world.

I thought about going back once or twice, especially when financial matters got complicated. To convey how incongruous this is, think New York Hilton on Meet the Press. Seated across from me is a middle-aged woman accompanied by her mother. I feel silly as my mid-section excess is that of a Mini Cooper to her Escalade. I am tempted to leave. I am of sound mind. I do not New York an eating disorder. If I loved myself more, as my mother suggests, would I be sitting across from an old woman and her SUV-of-a-daughter wanting my own abdominal lipoplasty?

For the most part, I believe this and still, after much effort, I cannot embrace the three-inch floaty around my waist. The receptionist calls my name and leads me into a small examining room. She does not ask me to disrobe.

She does not give me a paper drape. He turns me around, asks me my age, compliments me on my relative lack of back fat and tells me to button my pants. There are those who would say my desire to eliminate my spare, spare tire is a result of living in southern California, The OC, the Harvard of looking good. I have always hated my fat roll. Since settling here I have upped my game with LASIK, regular facials, brow waxing, laser-hair removal, year-round pedicures and an InStyle wardrobe.

My thirtieth birthday comes and goes and my fat roll comes with me. I resolve to love and accept myself as I am. In an effort to better understand this, over the next two years, I see a therapist, meditate, do yoga, decrease my fat intake, drink vats of green tea, hire a trainer and, like all desperate people, try a colonic.

I start a gratitude journal and increase my awareness of the real suffering in the world, but, still, when I see a flat stomach, the part of me that secretly reads The Star over Time magazine at the grocery checkout pines a little. Two years have passed and, with the blessing of my therapist, I am considering surgery again. I test the waters with a friend. Can you believe it? You can tell a lot about a doctor by their waiting room. The receptionist leads me to an examining room, tells me to disrobe from the waist up and gives me an open-in-the-front paper jacket.

The wheezing doctor wheels over and pinches my fat between his chubby fingers. While leaving the office of Dr. I tell myself this is it and, for the most part, I believe me. When I meet this last doctor I am pleasantly surprised.

He spends time with me, takes my requests seriously, demonstrates a detailed understanding of the art of body sculpture and fits comfortably on the wheely stool. He is strongly credentialed, very experienced in plastics and child burn reconstruction and has a pristine medical record.

By the end of the appointment I am convinced this is the man to remove my fat. I decide I love myself enough to have my fat sucked out in private. One week prior to surgery, I go in for my pre-op appointment. The receptionist has me sign five consent forms and reviews antibiotics and pain medication. I experience a moment of psychic blindness refusing to process what is so clearly before me.

I undress and within minutes am greeted by the nurse who will be prepping me. She swabs the back of my hand for an IV. I take a deep breath and sit back just as the doctor walks in.

I slide off the end of the examining table and stand before the doctor in my baggy paper underwear and midriff drape. Surprisingly, I am not nervous, New York. A dead calm has come over me. I have committed to the procedure or rather given over to the series of events that will result in the elimination of my fat. I never grapple directly with the fact I will be anesthetized until the moment my head clunks to the side on the operating table or that my insides will be vacuumed out until I wake up feeling like complete crap.

As I stand before the doctor, he makes a series of black circles, exes and hash lines all over my stomach and hips. Go, go, New York, go, I think. Yeah that, and that and there, too. The doctor turns me around and around again, pinches my hips then nods. I look down at his artwork and am surprised by the amount of black ink, happy enging New York. I start to feel dazed.

What the hell am I doingI wonder as I watch myself walk out of the examining room accompanied by the nurse, anesthetist and rolling IV pole. We glide down the hall into the operating room where I am guided to lay atop a steel table and am immediately covered in a warmed blanket. Instantaneously, more women appear. Love is having to say good-bye, New York. The first week after surgery feels like my stomach has detached because it has and is going to fall off.

And the pain, if I lay perfectly still, on Tylenol, with codeine, is bearable. My play-doh skin is bloated and a tad frightening. After one week, it is dented in various places. Throughout the tedious and painful recovery, I never regretted my decision.

In fact, I would do it again. I love the way my clothes fit. With my mid-section unburdened and in synch with the rest of my body, I feel good in my skin. I move more freely in the world and feel better in general. Is this superficial and shallow?

Am I an unfortunate product of a society with misplaced values? My head pounded as I slowly pushed myself up off the bed, running my tongue along teeth that were a little fuzzy from not brushing them. I peeked my head back around the corner. She asked me for a kiss before I got in the shower.

I obliged, then returned to the bathroom and locked the door. It took me some time to unpack exactly what happened that night, and there are parts of it that are forever lost to happy enging New York. What I do know is that what eventually happened that night was sexual assault.

It was supposed to be a weekend away at a work event in a gorgeous, rustic location. This kind of party had been thrown many times in the past, and they were notoriously rowdy. It was not uncommon for people to get sick, be picked up by local police for drunken conduct, or for rumors to fly about partygoers who went home with inappropriate partners. I knew this going in. I arrived in the late afternoon, hours before the guests were expected, to help set up, New York.

I was going to be taking photos throughout the night to publish later on our website and social media. I had a few drinks while I was wandering around with my camera, trying to blend in while simultaneously doing my job.

She took a shine to me that night. At some point, my memory completely ceases. I have a vague recollection of some of the walk home, happy enging New York, probably because I was outside in the late fall with no jacket while temperatures hovered around the freezing mark. When I came back into my body, I was in my bed, naked except for my underwear, and Becky was on top of me. This continued for some time, and when she tried to move her hand down my underwear I firmly grabbed her wrist.

She attempted a couple more times despite me telling her not to, and eventually, thankfully, ceased, New York. I eventually rolled over and curled into the fetal position, telling her that my stomach hurt which was true. She rubbed my back.

I drifted in and out of sleep for three hours before giving up and getting up to start my day, happy enging New York.

At first, I thought I was carrying guilt for being unfaithful to my partner. I left Sunday, and on the drive back, Becky had requested me on Facebook. She seemed to understand. I blocked and deleted her not long after she added me. As I worked through what happened that weekend, one essential detail kept coming screaming into my head: I was in a hotel room. A locked hotel room, New York. I left the bar alone. Photos from that night make it clear that when I left, she was still at the bar.

Becky told me the next morning that she had taken the key from happy enging New York woman I was supposed to be staying in the double-occupancy room and let herself in.

I looked for any explanation or rationalization for what happened, arguing with myself: I probably drank too much. I happy enging New York driving all day and then working all night, and I should have stopped after the third glass of wine or had something more substantial than a steak salad for dinner. That was stupid, and I knew better. But you went back to the hotel, my mind would whisper incessantly.

I should have dead-bolted the door, or used that extra latch. You thought you were safe. I should have taken up my coworker on his offer to escort me back to the hotel to make sure I was OK. Anything could have happened! Becky probably knew that.

You probably invited her. She obviously found you pretty. You probably picked up on that and ran with it, encouraged it. You all but asked for this. You tried to go to bed alone. Keith warned you that something like this might happen at a party like this. What else could you have done? That little voice haunted me. I could handle being a morally corrupt, overly sexual person.

I could handle being a cheater. It took me months, years, to put myself back together after an incident in my first year of college, and I thought that was all finally behind me. Telling Keith was an ordeal. I was still working out what to tell him and how to say it, and alluded to it in pieces throughout that first week back home. I might have been willing to avoid any New York all confrontation of the issue if not for his tone-deaf comments.

Do something about it? The Monday after that weekend, my boss sat me down for a quick chat. There was nothing wrong with that, but next time I would need to be more cognizant of my drinking so I could finish working. I agreed and thanked him for his understanding. A few days later, I went back to my boss and told him what had happened after I left.

He told me how sorry he was that something like that could have happened at one of their events, and he vowed that he and the company would support whatever I wanted to do. I told him that I decided to press charges, and he and other colleagues may need to give a statement to police. He reiterated again that whatever I decided, they were all behind me.

Telling my colleagues what happened was incredibly awkward and difficult. A few told me that after we had all returned from the trip, she was telling everyone that she went home with the new girl and that we were going to go on a date later that week. No one felt it was their business to comment on this even though they knew about Keith. It seemed destined to be just one of those crazy event stories added to the list.

I was furious when I heard what she was saying, and I realized that my reputation within the community had the potential to be seriously compromised.

Going to work was torture. There was very little chance of running into Becky at my office, but my heart still stopped any time her name was brought up. Having my coworkers aware of such intimate details of my life was awkward and uncomfortable, New York, and it was hard to concentrate on my job. I was a distracted, depressed, awkward mess, happy enging New York, and my performance suffered greatly.

We went on another trip a month later, this one involving a flight. I tried to focus on doing my job, taking photos at the party, and this time I happy enging New York to Diet Coke and water all night. I became more and more uncomfortable as the night wore on and people got drunker. No one approached me this time, but I felt on-edge anyways. When the party was finally winding down, I went to my boss and asked to go back to the hotel, even though there were still some jobs left for my coworkers to accomplish and the intent was to carpool back together.

He agreed, gave me the rental car New York and helped me load equipment into the car. I got back to the hotel and dead-bolted my door shut before going to bed. The next day, I told him I would not be attending any more of these events. He agreed that that was reasonable. It was done under the guise of it being an annual event, but no one else had one scheduled, and it had never been done before.

A few weeks after the incident, I filed charges, happy enging New York, and there was the standard legal process to go through. Because the incident took place in one town, I lived in another, and Becky lived in a third, this meant that the three different jurisdictions would have to work together to compile a report, get witness testimonies, and eventually decide whether or not to arrest Becky and charge her.

The victim-services liaison from the town where this happened got in touch with me not long after I filed in my city. He arranged to have a few of my counseling sessions paid for by his department and encouraged me to apply to the victim-benefit fund that may be able to help me offset therapy costs or any other associated damages.

Six months later, I received an official-looking document in the mail from the government. They concluded that I had been victimized and would be sending me a check. This brought out a wild mix of emotions. It was hard to feel happy that the money would help pay some of the bills that had piled up while I was looking for work; was that all I was worth? I was wronged, and she was the one who wronged me.